It's Dangerous Bussiness Walking Out Your Front Door

So there I was, sprawled across the back seat of the car, chewing on a piece of gauze to stop the bleeding from my missing molar.
She was driving like it was any old Wednesday—though it wasn’t a Wednesday, just a figure of speech.

“Hey… why didn’t you sit up front with me?” she asked, her eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror with every blink.

“More room back here… wanted to stretch my legs a bit,” I replied, swinging my legs diagonally onto her seat, lightly tapping the back of her neck.

“I’d have thought you were completely wrecked from the beating.”

“That’s… exactly why, Cher.” I kept taking the gauze out and putting it back. “This is gonna hurt like hell once the adrenaline wears off…” I muttered.

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“Because it’s downright sick that I can’t make a damn joke just because your thick head can’t process them,” I said, slumping over the front passenger seat’s backrest. “You should see a shrink. That’s not normal.”

“I don’t have money.”

“You’ve got a gun… I’d say that’s more persuasive than cash,” I replied, tossing the gauze out the window.

The streets were no longer on a slight incline, and the sun didn’t seem too keen on sticking around up there either.
The houses got worse with every street we passed; the sidewalks looked like those fancy cheeses with holes in them.

“We’re not going for the skirt, are we?”

“Got a craving,” she said, slamming on the brakes in front of a rundown motel.

“Uh… We can afford something better. I don’t want to wake up with a cockroach in my pants,” I swore you could smell the piss and misery from inside the car.

“Not for sleeping. I got a craving, I said. I need… dopamine…” She opened the door, checked her outfit, and started primping in the car’s side mirror.

“You mean… stuffing donuts?”

“I told you I already ate, dickhead,” she muttered, glaring at me sideways while smudging her eyeliner with her finger.

“I wasn’t talking about eating, damn it. I really gotta start being blunt, huh…” I slid into the front passenger seat. “Sex?”

“Sex.”

“Finally! Damn it…” I was about to open the door when she reached through the window and locked it. “Hey, idiot, what the hell are you doing?”

“Not with you.”

“What do you mean, not with me?”

“I can’t have sex with you.”

“Give me one good reason why you can’t,” I said, practically shooting lasers from my eyes.

“Uh… well… you know…” she stammered, looking away. “We’ve got something… and taking… taking that step… it’s…” Her words trailed off.

“Uh-huh. So we can’t have sex because you like me? That’s SUPER logical, so you’re gonna go bang some random dude at the motel. Got it.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks… I thought this was gonna get awkward…”

“It’s gonna get damn awkward. I was being sarcastic!”

“Don’t act like a kid, okay? I’ll be back in a bit.”

“In a bit? Damn it…” I muttered, rubbing my hair as she just walked toward the motel.

How long counts as 'a bit'?
Who was she going to be with?
Probably that dump of a motel has a bar, and it’s the guy behind the counter. Gotta be him.
I could keep spiraling, pinning every stupid action that’d lead those two to bed while I’m stuck turning the car on and off, maybe even killing the battery… or I could just walk in and put a couple of bullets in that jerk’s ass.

But… technically, we weren’t anything… so, as much as it pissed me off, I couldn’t meddle in her business.

This is what I’d call 'communication issues,' folks.
I was so deep in my head that I didn’t even flinch when a girl dove through the back window, curled up like a hamster under the seat.

“Please, I need hel—” she started to yell from under the seat.

“I don’t give a damn. I’m not in the mood, and again, I don’t give a damn. Get out,” I said, letting my head rest against the steering wheel.

“P-Please, just get me out of here. Start the car,” she stammered, her yells only making my mood worse. “I-I’ll pay you anything… just drive.”

“Look… I don’t give a damn. I’m so pissed off I’m not even gonna mention the broken window…” I said, barely turning my head to see who was back there.

The girl looked genuinely terrified—not unusual if someone’s chasing you.
She was also… uh… pretty cute, though flat-chested, but that’s not important.
What was important was the heart tattoo under her right eye—not relevant now, but it will be later.
Let’s just say that tattoo was like having a 'shit ton of cash' sign inked on her face.

“Alright… I took a deep breath, I’m calmer now. Spill it, what the hell’s going—” I couldn’t even finish before a sharply dressed guy leaned his arms on my side of the car.

“Hey, hey…” he said in a stupidly jokey tone. “Thanks for finding my sister. God, I nearly had a heart attack when I lost her. I thought I’d have to put up missing posters…”

“Uh-huh. Sister? Got a better one?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“Alright… I thought we could do this the nice way, you know…” he said, pulling back his jacket.

Yes, ladies, gentlemen, and whoever else is out there, the old, tired attempt at intimidation by flashing a gun in his belt.
I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep and was dreaming of a bad ‘90s movie.

“The nice way, huh… Look, how do I explain this?” I grabbed his tie and shoved my gun’s barrel under his chin. Even with just one bullet, no idiot would miss a point-blank shot. “I’m in such a shitty mood, you wouldn’t believe it… so, nice and easy, slide your gun over here,” I said, pointing to the dashboard.

“L-Look… c-calm down, man…” he said, placing the revolver on the dashboard.

Old, noisy, .45 caliber—clearly not something you’d use on the street without drawing attention. So, the plan wasn’t just to put a couple of holes in this girl.

“Calm down, my ass,” I said before turning to the girl. “Hey, talk fast. Who is he, and what the hell does he want with you?”

She answered, but I didn’t need her to after looking at her for a few seconds. Her wrists were red, skin peeling, same as her ankles.
Her clothes were torn, and she had burn marks.
That’s what I gathered from looking. Her actual response was a single sentence I won’t repeat.

“Alright… uh… whatever your name is…”

“K-Kaito…” he replied, hands slightly raised.

“That wasn’t a question. I don’t care about your name. Trust me, it’s not relevant for the plot,” I said, stepping out of the car, still aiming at him. “Look, tell your buddies to stop hiding in the trash, alright? If they’re gonna shoot, make it quick.”

“N-No one else… no one. No need for shooting,” he said, laughing too nervously, eyes fixed on the barrel.

“Yeah, I figured, but I had to be sure.” I left the car door open and, with a quick knee to the back of his thighs, had him on his knees, gripping his hair. Don’t underestimate how much the back of the thighs hurts. “Hey, girl, your name. Tell me. That is important.”

“A-Aya…” she said, peeking out the window.

“Okay, Aya, then. I want ten million.”

“Yours.”

“I fucking love quick deals…” I let out a small laugh. I think Kaito said something under his breath, but I didn’t care. “…One more thing. Don’t misread this, because you’re just the embodiment of ‘wrong place, wrong time,’ but tell me, was it him who did that to you?”

“Him… and others…”

“…Interesting…” I muttered, pressing his head against the car door’s edge. “I don’t usually do things this way, but damn, I need to blow off some steam, you get me? So… you might want to look away…” I continued, tucking my gun into the back of my pants.

“I'll watch.” Two unwavering words. That, folks, was hate—real hate, not the kind that gnaws at your conscience later. No, no, the true kind.

“O-k-a-y,” I replied.

Remember those old stoves grandmas have? The ones they only use to heat water for tea or whatever… the oven door’s hinges are always shot, so you close it, it pops open, you close it again, it pops open again.
You keep doing it, getting more pissed off each time because the damn door won’t stay shut.
That’s more or less what happened here, except in this case, there was a 'watermelon' stuffed in the middle.